


a soft and violent homecoming

by Gildedstorm



Series: make a fury of me [4]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Gen, ghosting your family is a time-honoured sith tradition, good family relationships sound fake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 06:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10406319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedstorm/pseuds/Gildedstorm
Summary: Rkorya was always meant to become Sith. It's what comes after that's the problem.





	

The question of her origins is one Rkorya is surprised to suddenly start fielding, after she becomes Sith. Before, it was never something to be considered. She remembers vividly one of the many political outings her family took part in, small gatherings to make connections and assess like-minded allies, and the double-edged compliments that flew back and forth. “You’ve done quite well for yourselves,” one noble had said, smiling thinly. “Given where you came from, of course.” She – protected by her potential in the Force, the weighing interest in each message to the overseers – butted in, blunt and guileless and protesting that they came from their holdings on Dromund Kaas, where else?

Later she would learn all the delightfully myriad ways that one could say Zabrak without saying it outright, or worse, _alien_. Even though she had never set foot on Iridonia, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that it was where she was _really_ from, her bloodline be damned.

And then suddenly, it isn’t. Korriban changes everything, is the crucible in which all the acolytes are poured into like seething molten metal. So many of them end up as slag, cooling and dead, and the rest are... reforged. Part of her is born there in the sand and amidst the tombs, drawn out of the dark whispers thick in the Force. This is what it means to be Sith: statues etched away by centuries, power that has seeped into every stone, names that make the air tremble with dread. This is her birthright, and at first she wields it like a hammer, flares her power because it must be acknowledged.

From Baras she learns restraint, patience, cunning. He sends her across the galaxy, and it is on one of those seemingly unending journeys that the question comes up, after Vette has finished singing bawdy songs to try and make Quinn blush.

(To his credit, he’s buried himself in some reports and has proven immune.)

“I can’t believe I didn’t ask this before, but... you have family, right? You didn’t just... I don’t know, walk out of a Korriban tomb sometime?”

“Of course I have family,” she says, surprised and uneasy. It takes a moment to pin down why – she almost hasn’t thought of them since Baras took her as his apprentice. She’d sent a message, of course, but... well, it had been brief, and that had been months ago. “Back on Dromund Kaas – a minor holding in the city, and a private compound.”

“I thought so,” Quinn says, breaking his vow of long-suffering silence. “You have the refined eloquence of a Kaas noble, my lord – I thought that was where you were from.” _And where else would I be from,_ she wants to ask, but knows the answer – Iridonia lives on in the mere glimpse of her tattoo or horns.

“Who _cares_ what she sounds like? You didn’t say a word about it when we were there! I mean, not that I want to be dragged around to some Sithy noble house but... you really didn’t want to stop in and see your family?”

“There wasn’t much time,” she says, and even she can tell that’s a stalling tactic. Vette scowls, turning to fully face her.

“Yeah, I’m sure you couldn’t take a break from going into ruins and squashing jungle rebellions, right?”

“ _Vette,_ ” Quinn says, tone sharpening – a warning of edging on insubordination that Rkorya doesn’t care to wave off. She takes a breath, and when she speaks again, she’s softened, if not quite respectful.

“Sorry, I just... family is important. And I bet they’re really proud of you, for being an apprentice, and killing like, ten Jedi yesterday...”

“Six were padawans,” she points out, letting herself be soothed.

“ _They_ don’t have to know that.”

“You’ve been pushing yourself hard, my lord,” Quinn adds. “I’m sure Darth Baras wouldn’t begrudge a few days of leave.”

It sounds weighty and terrifying and tempting. Rkorya considers it, tasting fear and letting it unravel.

“Very well – after Taris, maybe I’ll return to the capital. For a short while.”

Of course, she never does. At first, it’s the war looming, her own need to prove herself mingling freely with a desire to strengthen the Empire. Baras’ orders are easy enough to follow, even if she chafes beneath his command, finds herself wondering how long before his pawns need to be replaced. When she does return to Kaas City, it’s a harried back and forth to kill Darth Vengean, and then she has to lay low lest the rest of the Dark Council think she’s bragging about her feat.

There is no shortage of excuses, especially once Baras tries to kill her. And then there is truly no _time_. The Emperor has spoken, and what is family or fulfilling her pledge to them when the Empire is in danger? Events cascade, blurring from one hasty victory to the next. She doesn’t regret any part of it, not after Voss. It feels like she’s alive like never before, power and anger and duty all finally falling into place, and who could care about her origins or what she’s left behind with such _conviction_ bearing her forward?

Until, finally, she returns to Korriban. For all that she only spent a short, rushed time as an acolyte, the familiarity of coming back and setting foot on the sands hits her like a hammer blow.

“I’ve missed this place,” she murmurs, and Vette – who, despite her nightmares, had insisted on coming to ‘see this through, and maybe laugh at old maskface’ – scoffs behind her.

“That makes one of us, at least.”

“This _is_ home, in a way. To a part of me – the promise of what I could become, if I survived.”

“You know, if you weren’t terrifying, you’d be cute when you get sentimental. Come on, greatest of Sith Lords – let’s fulfill that promise. I bet your weird Sith buddy will mope if you make him wait too long.”

She kills her master. It is everything she could have hoped for, and nothing she expected. It is a burden relieved, a weight dropping away – a grudge that can be cast aside. When she leaves Korriban, she feels she must be floating, unsure of her purpose, wanting to wait for another crisis to arise. But her crew has been pushed to their limits by the lengths they’ve had to go, the betrayals they’ve endured, and she can think of no truly _safe_ place for them to rest.

Except, maybe, for one.

“There’s a message for you, my lord,” Quinn says, painstakingly precise as they pull into the Dromund Kaas spaceport. “It’s from... ah, Darth Vowrawn. A congratulations on your recognition in front of the Dark Council.” He pauses which, even considering his diminished standing, is surprising – he’s done his best to be even more faultless, to atone for his betrayal. “He... also says he went ahead and made some arrangements for you to take Darth – Baras’ old quarters in the Sith Sanctum. Until you have time to adjust and move whatever you wish in, however, he’s sent some gifts to your hereditary holdings.”

The clever old man. As the new Wrath, information on her was likely at a premium – Vowrawn hadn’t needed much time to dig up who she was related to, and where they lived. “Some gifts?” she repeats warily. “Does he specify?”

“Only that it’s what anyone of your rank should possess. I’m afraid I’m as in the dark on this as you, my lord.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out what loot he sent, right?” Vette chimes in, undaunted by the flat look it gets her in return. “What? You know me – always willing to go look at some weird Sith treasure.”

“Treasure that just so happens to be in my family’s holdings. I’m sure that has no bearing whatsoever on your desire to go see it.”

“Weeeell, it’s better than sitting around a Kaas cantina all day while Pierce mopes about not shooting things and flirts badly with everyone.” A pause. “No offence, Pierce.”

“Only some taken, Vette,” he shoots back, leaning on the back of a chair. Quinn looks wearily put-upon and Rkorya, for once, wishes she could join him. But the banter is sharper than it should be, even Vette, irrepressible as ever, is a little too brittle and quick with her words. She’s pushed them hard, for her goals.

“Seriously, my lord,” she breaks in again, perhaps sensing the change in her mood. “It’s just... you don’t talk about it at all – where you’re from, your family. You... know all about us. You’ve helped us, saved us... you know all our stories. And we barely know yours, in some ways.”

Sentiment, Baras had told her, is weakness. Surely it must be hers, to be so swayed by words alone.

“It’s not anywhere near as important as you must be imagining,” she says at last. “I grew up on Dromund Kaas. I’ve never been close with my family – they knew I would either become Sith or die in the attempt.”

“Cheerful,” Vette mutters, raising her hands when Rkorya glances at her. “Sorry, I get it. No interrupting.”

“I know you... value your family, Vette, and you cared deeply for your parents, Jaesa. That was always impossible for me. Duty to the Empire always came first – especially when, despite my bloodline, there still was... much to prove. I was pushed to test myself, to be stronger than all who had come before. To proclaim, without a doubt, that we were worthy.” She allows herself a dry smile. “I don’t think they ever thought of what would come afterwards, and... neither did I, until you started pestering me.”

“Well... sorry. Unless you’re... glad to be here, in which case, nope, not sorry at all.”

“Glad we cleared that up,” Jaesa says, crossing her arms. Her impatience flares through the ship and Rkorya shrugs it off like a momentary surge of heat. The others barely twitch, by now. With two Sith onboard, they’ve grown rather used to the occasional display of temper. More sentiment, but she can’t help feeling proud of that. They are a ragged group, more bloodthirsty than disciplined, but they are _hers_ , loyal to the last, and toughened by the battles she’s led them through. “So are we going or not?”

“We’re going. Quinn, get a shuttle, and send word ahead that the Wrath –” Her title still feels new to her, and to say it so firmly, know it as truth, is a little like a killing blow. A taste of _victory_. “– will be arriving shortly. The rest of you make yourselves presentable.”

“Of course, my lord,” Quinn says, making himself scarce. Pierce and Vette follow after, only lingering long enough to make it clear that they’re not leaving at the same time as he is. Quinn will still have an opportunity to be smug – he’d been after Pierce to tend to his armour for weeks.

“...That includes cleaning your claws, Broonmark.” The Talz grumbles, aggrieved.

<We do this only because it is for Sith’s blood.>

“You do it because I’m telling you to. There’ll be enough battles to bloody them again soon enough, I promise you.” That certainty calms them both, and he lurches away with only one last grudging rumble. She isn’t sure of what to do with herself when resting, even when she can’t deny that they all need it. Time to regroup, to arrange her affairs...

Past time, perhaps, to see just what she’s earned with her struggles. To realize that, here, at least, she has nothing left to prove.


End file.
